


In Between

by sasha_b



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, Past Athos/Milady - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:44:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2068719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What do I do now?"</p>
<p>Athos, after the fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cathelms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathelms/gifts).



> This is kind of rambly, as I wanted to explore Athos' emotions and actions after the events of Commodities. I wanted to go for a more cohesive story, but I am a sucker for internal monologue and angst, so…not exactly what I wanted. 
> 
> I took liberties with the marked tree idea; I did read that people have been carving images into trees for centuries and just ran with it. 
> 
> SPOILERS for season one, episode three, **Commodities**.
> 
> For Cat. <3

The drink hasn’t worn off yet, and he’s very thankful for it.

Athos is sure D’Artagnan is around, close, as he can hear shuffling and breathing and the horses blowing and nickering. But he can also hear the timbers from the burnt, blackened house snapping and falling, and he can smell the charred remains of his past only too well – black, smoky, ashy, clingy soot that coats his lungs and his brain and sticks to his clothing and damp skin.

His shirt hangs open, sweaty and smelly, and D’Artagnan has his pauldron and jacket and hat somewhere, ostensibly to air them out. They are a few leagues from the chateau and he’s never been more glad – 

_our room is gone._

He wonders if the tree he’d had her hung from survived the huge fire that had engulfed his once beautiful home.

Rolling over, he searches for more wine, or anything to add to the baseline feeling of brain rattling high that soaks his nerves. Drink is his friend. Drink is his only friend.

_You’re a bastard, Athos._

He smiles to himself, crooked and broken as he can _hear_ Aramis speak the words. The two other men are brothers to him, as much as he doesn’t want to be beholden to anyone, as that way lays madness. Deep madness and worry that because of him, because of something he might do, they will die, and he doesn’t think he can stand that.

There’s no drink; the boy probably hid it. Or maybe it all burned. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t care, and he sits up, leaning against a willowy ash tree that lurches behind him, a warped, knotted up thing that he twists to stare up at, raising an eyebrow, the tree gnarled and old and he laughs. Twisted and broken and old.

“Athos?”

“I’m fine,” he answers, not wanting D’Artagnan to come to see what he’s doing. He stands, wavering, his shirt gaping, the necklace with the forget-me-not hanging like a choking scarf around his neck. He’s not sure where his gloves are (with the clothing?) and he wipes his forehead with his dirty sleeve (smoky) as he faces the tree. Its branches are bare and it is obviously dead; he wonders how the village folk could have missed this for firewood or building but then he takes a step closer to it, and sees it’s been –

There are words all over the trunk, names and dates and weird drawings and Athos blinks drunkenly, surprised he’s never seen this thing before, or heard about it. He raises his left hand and touches the trunk, the carvings rough and biting into his skin. He slides his pointer finger into one particularly deep drawing – a heart broken in half, how droll – and he hisses and jerks back, the bark of the tree drawing blood.

The moon is overly full and smoke from his house still rises; it will for days. He’ll leave it there for the locals to do with as they wish, as it doesn’t matter to him what happens to it anymore.

She’d put a knife to his throat, and he’d said _do it._

His neck stings and itches slightly, and he scratches at it, drawing a bloody line across it with shaking fingers, the cut he’d received from the ash dripping sluggishly and he runs his hand over his throat, once, twice, an imitation of the mark he’d given her. The mark his love had left her with.

But she’d murdered his brother, and had lied to him.

He looks up at the sky, the smoke clearing somewhat. He knows he needs to get some sort of sleep; they need to be in Paris as soon as possible in order to help the others with Bonnaire. The scum. Athos thinks briefly that Porthos might end up killing the slaver, but he knows Aramis will stop that from happening –

“You should be asleep, Athos.”

He turns at the crunching from D’Artagnan’s boots on the ground. The boy’s face is concerned and his normally easy countenance is pinched and Athos feels an anger rise up that takes drink to control most of the time. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and his fingers come together at his sides, fists that ache to hit something. Anything. Himself, truth be told. 

Ash and smoky detritus make his eyes water and D’Artagnan’s expression holds something – pity – Athos turns his back on the boy and retreats to the tree he’s been looking at, tracing the heart again, his own dead and black as it has been for five years.

“Athos,” D’Artagnan says again.

“I’ll sleep when I’m ready,” he answers, sharply, his words drifting to the sky, the wind taking them and making them disappear. Fitting, he thinks.

“Watch the horses,” he adds, wanting D’Artagnan to go away, especially after all that he’d said to the boy. 

_What do I do now?_

“Has this tree been here long?”

The boy is next to him, and Athos sighs imperceptibly. “I don’t know. I’ve never noticed it before.” He traces the heart methodically, his cut finger staining it a dark red he can barely see in the gloom. 

D’Artagnan puts out a hand and stops Athos’ tracing. 

“Don’t,” Athos’ voice is low and he can barely hear it. 

“You need to sleep,” the boy repeats, a parrot, angering Athos further – the boy trusts him, though, and Athos, despite his better judgment, wants to like this farm boy who’d had the guts to challenge three musketeers for honor. Just like any of them would. Honor and revenge.

Athos looks at the tree one more time, the multiple names and sentiments wavering before his exhausted eyes, red at the rims, and he turns finally, following D’Artagnan to where the horses are hobbled for the night, falling to his seat on the ground, accepting the small beaker of water the boy gives him.

He lays on one of the horse blankets and watches the stars he can see through the drifting smoke – it’s hard to tell just how many there are – and tries not to think of what’s just happened and 

_his brother, for God’s sake_

_Remy, dead by_

_Her hand. Milady’s hand. His wife. His love._

_Five years spent learning to live in a world without her._

“What do I do now?” he whispers, his eyes closing, his hands falling to his sides, tears escaping his lids – they’re forever trapped by his lashes, by his control, by drink, by the fear of showing _too much_ , by the idea he might damage someone else by giving compassion or love – he lets them fall and feels the remnants of the drunkenness slowly drift away, as the last of the house collapses under its own dead weight with a resounding splitting crash.

“I’m sorry,” D’Artagnan says after a moment, the silence from the now completely destroyed house deafening. Athos opens his eyes and the air is clear and the sky is bright despite the smoke and ash and he can see the colors in the night, colors that haven’t been there for five years. He cocks his head, his hair pulling on the blanket, and waves a hand at the black – it’s not just black, though, really.

But it’s not just shades of grey anymore either.

“As am I,” Athos answers him.

Believing she was dead by his hand was almost the worst thing he could imagine.

Knowing that she isn’t – and that she’d remained hidden to him for five years, five long torturous years where he’d almost killed himself multiple times, be it for the musketeers or not – that’s so much worse.

But he looks at the boy, and then at the sky, and then at his horse and his weapons and the leather coat and hat that sits near them. He looks and can see the blue and steel and brown of the leather and the green of the other trees around them, the ones that aren’t dead, and he closes his eyes again and sleeps.

*

The sun is barely a thought in the world’s eye and he’s astride his horse and wakes D’Artagnan with a nudge of the animal’s nose at the boy’s bedroll.

Athos is broken and bent and hurt, so hurt he can barely think. But the crushing despair – it’s transmuted into something else now, something that makes his heart beat and his breath stir – 

She hadn’t killed him, even though he’d wanted her to. He still deserved it, he thinks. But now – he has a chance for answers, a second chance, one he didn’t have the time or the energy to even imagine.

He’d upheld the law and done his duty. No matter that he sent his love to her death. No matter that she’d lied to him. Had killed his brother.

He has a chance to redeem himself now. And maybe her as well.

He smiles as D’Artagnan mounts up, a tiny thing that makes his lips ache.

There’s a chance. He won’t entertain it much; he can’t do that. But it’s there at the back of his mind, hiding, a present he can drag out when it’s raining and he’s alone and there’s nothing there but the loss and the memory of what he doesn’t have. Alone with his wine and his small apartments and his bucket of icy water that is his constant alarm each morning.

The other men won’t know. They don’t need to know. He won’t put them in that position, won’t endanger them with the knowledge of his past. But the chance, the chance is there and it’s his little gift to himself.

Answers. The chance to see her –

“I’m ready.”

They ride quickly, and they arrive when Athos had planned to, the smell of soot and ash gone from his clothing, his jacket and pauldron fastened tightly to his body. His hat shades his eyes and he silently pulls it down over the green as they pull to a stop, D’Artagnan ready to find the others, even as they catch sight of the Spanish spy. Athos will take care of him, and with pleasure, really.

He’d like to draw his sword today. And use it.

“D’Artagnan,” his voice is strong, but his gut twists inside. “Say nothing to the others of what happened.”

“You have my word.”

Athos trusts the boy. 

They split up, and he follows the Spaniard, hat low and sword ready.

His throat itches again, but he ignores it in favor of noticing the squalor of Paris as if for the first time in ages.

He knows in exactly how long, but he keeps that part of the gift tucked away and hidden, passing under an arch, the leather of his coat creaking as he pulls his blade from its sheath, the zing of metal vibrating his teeth and setting his heart to beating.

He catches a slight whiff of burned _things_ and shudders, the feel of her mouth in his hair again imprinted forever, no matter the outcome now.

He follows the spy, the weight of the pauldron on his shoulder heavy and stiff, this time.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted the idea of Athos' thoughts clearing (the fact he's noticing colors again) here to be because of his idea he might get another chance, as pitiable as that is. A chance for redemption or to really make sure she's gone this time - not sure. I hope that was portrayed accurately.
> 
> Thank you for any feedback. :)


End file.
